"All that is short is not meadowsweet,
Meadowsweet, by all account is tall.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the meadowsweet,
Gently it goes - the long-shanked, the long, the stately.
The annatto is not big!
The annatto is exceptionally minute.
Never forget the diminutive and minute annatto.
When I think of the york, I see northern clothes.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the york,
Gently it goes - the artful, the knavish, the crafty.
I saw the the ambitious bush of my generation destroyed,
How I mourned the pyracantha.
"Ice", said the pyracantha,
And "Ice" then "Ice" again.
All that is hairless is not loosestrife,
Loosestrife, by all account is hairy.
I don't like the fact that it
Learned to kill before it knew how to leaf.
I will consider my cinquefoil.
For my cinquefoil is dead because it wants to leaf.
Cinquefoil, cinquefoil, every where,
Yet not a drop to leaf.
It does leaf, it does contain,
Should it also range?"
April woke up reciting that poem, and she wondered why. She loved it, she wrote it herself. But why that poem? She walked into the living room, where her cat was already making herself at home on a red and black Christmas present. She shooed the cat away, not really thinking about the present. She opened it, and smiled. Inside was a delicate, single white rose. How peculiar. But she loved it. She picked it up and smelled it. It was as though she was in a meadow with fresh snow falling on the ground. She admired it. It was as though it was a gift from Nature itself, that the snow outside her house manifested into a present. She loved it.
What she didn't love, however, was the thorn that cut her finger. She winced a little, not thinking anything of it. But that was when she noticed the temperature in the room drop dramatically. The air was chilled to her, and her body temperature was decreasing rapidly. She looked at her hand, which was unmovable. It was solid ice. She could only take two steps before her entire torso was solid ice. She could only whisper half a word when she became a cold statue. The rose fell out of her hand onto the ground, with no sound to be heard in the entire house.
End of Chapter 11
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Austy Quinn's Christmas Special I
AdventureA Very Austy Quinnmas! The long awaited Austy Quinn Christmas Special! This is the first in the annual series, and was written in 2017 by me. Names have not been changed since then, everything has stayed exactly the same. This was written as a Chri...
